The Conditions
by Katja93
Summary: One Shot from Freak Show; Elsa has a client back in Germany.


**A/N: A random one shot of Elsa in her whoring days. I was bored and haven't slept in 2 days, so please don't judge too harshly! I'm taking AHS requests/prompts so please pm or comment if you fancy giving me a chance to practice my still-not-so-wonderful writing skills. Especially with Jess characters, 'cause I'm a Jess whore :) Ta!**

….

'Just whatever you do, don't take your eyes off me, okay?'

A warning, she purred into his mouth, her words pouring like sweet liquor- no, something weightier, something more defined. Liquid mercury, leaving her lips like hot lava, only to solidify and strangle in his throat. How he loved every minute of this agony she inflicted on him. Their lips never touched, their skin barely even grazed, and yet the absolute relief he found in her throaty commands and pursed lips did more to him than any other woman's deepest caresses ever could.

The great actress. So great, however, how could he know each moan she elicited from his eager, gaping mouth drove her closer and closer to the edge of total self-loathing, to the pits of degradation. So deep and so far gone, she worried she would never recover. Her acting, so brilliantly convincing, that her wretches of disgust and repulsion seemed to him like cries of ecstasy. Those same devastating wails, the ones that brought him closer and drove him harder, tricking him into thinking she enjoyed it all as much as he did. Perhaps that's what sickened her the most; that these men were so disgraced they were unaware, or at least chose to be, of how horrific she found it, of how low she felt. And then they bowed to her and gave her all they had. Everything, all for that tantalising release that only she could draw from them. She made them ejaculate gold. They made her vomit. But so long as her pocket was full she couldn't find it in herself to complain. Given the current state of Germany, Elsa Mars was one of the lucky ones; she could afford to eat, and most importantly, she could afford to drink away the awful memories.

He wasn't allowed to respond. She'd made it a condition when he first stepped into the room. Some of them liked that- new rules each time, one's with her own sick twist embedded in them. They help to keep the charade they played in their heads perpetuating. _She likes it too. She's like me_ they told themselves. Perhaps it helped them sleep at night. Either way, he couldn't respond. Not because of the punishment that she would dish out if he dared to break her rule, but because of the lack of it. That truly ensured their co-operation. And sometimes, regardless of how in control she was made to feel, Elsa felt such little control, she felt so few of those reigns she should have been gripping onto between her fingers, that she needed to be the only one who could talk. She needed to _know_ that rule wasn't going to be compromised. Instead of showing his acknowledgement vocally, he nodded wildly, reaching up as high at the restraints would allow to her angelic body that loomed over him. His mouth stretching, as though his life depended on it, as though if it were possible he would rip the very lips from his face, slice the tongue from his mouth, just to rub them against her torso, just to keep that filth in his mind forever.

Her acting was always better at the beginning of the evening, when she had had the day to rally and cajole herself, but even now, even at 2am, on her 5th John of the night, she still glared at him with eyes that promised to devour. And he writhed underneath the legs that splayed over him, praying to feel the heat from her wetness. That, he would not, for there was no wetness. Instead she snapped a leather belt millimetres from his face, warning him not to lunge, and yet daring him to, in the same breath. She shuffled down the stained mattress he was forced to lay upon, until her legs were straddling his waist, so she could bend right over him, so he could see the cleavage he so desperately needed to see. So he could feel her whiskey soaked breath on his face, in his mouth. He shook underneath her. Her stomach churned. She pressed her covered breasts against his pallid, concave chest and scowled through her lace mask down at him. Down at the lowlife whose erection was sticking to the inside of her thigh with every motion. 'Is the baby hungry?' The pale, sweaty animal between her thighs groaned, forcefully, disgustingly, and opened his mouth wide, eyes eagerly awaiting his meal. She pursed her lips and slowly, expertly, controlled the long, thin trail of spittle that hung from her lips. He whined, almost crying with anticipation. Almost coming with joy. The sweet, delectable agony of the warm fluid being so close to his tongue, and yet it remained, hovering above him, just out of reach. He wailed. Elsa made sure to lift herself off him before he shot his probably diseased load anywhere near her, and then rested the saliva almost gracefully on his lips, holding it for as long as his eyes showed her he could manage, before spitting the whole body of liquid from her mouth, forcefully into his.

Her face contorted into a twisted smile, watching the debauched man hold her drool inside his own crooked mouth, as though it was holy water. As though Christ Himself had hocked at him. He daren't move, even when his moans were causing him to gargle her saliva. 'Not yet, not yet, mein krankes kleines baby. Hold it for Mama,' she whispered in her deep, groaning tones, over and over into his agonized face, as she gently rubbed her gloved finger over his bottom lip, smearing the remains of her slaver. 'A little longer,' she pushed, as she was paid to do. As he had requested her to do. His bloodshot eyes screamed almost as loudly as the shattering groan of pleasure he emitted as he finally swallowed down Elsa's sacred spittle and came, nowhere near her skin. She watched his fists and face turn red as he pulled against the restraints, bucking into thin air, writhing as best he could. Elsa stood from the bed and lit up a cigarette. Her looming glare was proof that her mask was slipping. She took a long, deep drag, allowing the smoke to burn her lungs, searching for the missing actress, before turning back to him, her role reinstated plainly on her face. He gazed up at her with tears in his eyes, tears of appreciation and gratitude. She hovered over him, a thin snarl of disgust painted across her narrow, red lips. She reached up and unhooked his left arm from the leather binds and threw a rag in his face. 'Clean yourself up, foul schwein,' she oinked at him, flicking her ash into the creamy mess atop his thigh. She watched as he lunged down at himself, still panting and breathless, and unable to take his eyes off her. 'Not at me, at your shame,' she spat and his head snapped to the puddle as soon as she said it.

Four minutes later he was gone. That's how the men were. Once sated, their expressions dropped back to doting father, faithful husband, charming son, and their boots were on, and they left. The women were much less predictable. With the women, Elsa never really knew when the game was over. She'd started charging them by the hour, uncertain of just how many times it took until these women really were completely _done_. But the men were always the same. Even the same men on the same days each week. And that moment they walked out the door and took everything with them but the scent of their sweat from her body, Elsa would break. She would drink and cry and bathe in grotty water from the hotel sink, because to sit with their pleasure and her humiliation on her skin for another second would be too much to bear. Until the knock on the door indicated it was time for the next condition to be made.

Translations

mein krankes kleines baby- my sick little baby

foul schwein- foul pig


End file.
